The Dream
by Shaye1106
Summary: It's her Unicorn Baby's birthday, and she's not entirely sure how to handle it.


_**Prompt: Can you write a unicorn baby's birthday fic! Something really sad and angsty!**_

"Play with me," she hears a tiny voice call. "Play with me," he says, more demanding. She has a feeling of unease, of not knowing the future, of not knowing her location, but she also feels a tug on her heart. It's dragging her forward, making her feet have a mind of their own. She pushes through the foggy landscape, trying (and failing) to clear her senses. "Come play with me." She waves her right hand in front of her, trying to disperse the fog. "Pleeeeease," she hears the boy sing.

When she takes a few steps forward, she can finally see where she's been led to. It's a small clearing, circular and surrounded by trees. The inside is filled with flowers and low grasses, the colors bright and spring-like. The trees are lively, but behind them the fog is dark and swirling. It's a sanctuary inside of hell. "Please play with me," the young boy says, materializing by her side.

She startles at his presence and needs a second to catch her breath. Her heartbeat returns to normal soon enough and she smiles as the boy tugging her hand. He pulls her to the center where he finds a baseball. "Play catch with me?" She nods, backing up as he does the same. When he finally turns to throw the ball, facing her head-on for the first time, she freezes, her blood turning cold.

She takes a wavering breath as her eyes begin to water. She doesn't want to let the tears fall. Because it's _him._ It's her son. Her beautiful baby boy, her unicorn. He looks so much like Ryan and it stings her heart. Two people she had loved are now gone and here all at once. It's a bit much to handle.

She's so lost in her thoughts that she completely misses the ball thrown her way. The boy frowns. "Are you playing?"

She shakes herself from her thoughts and nods. She turns to pick up the ball, about to throw it back, when the image begins to disappear. She's turning her head left and right, keeping her eyes open despite the sting. She can't let this go. Not so soon: she's not ready.

"Amelia," Owen whispers, shaking her lightly. "Mia?" She opens her eyes to find Owen hovering over her, a concerned look on his face. He wipes the tears from her cheeks, and she frowns at the liquid. She hadn't realized she was crying. "Are you okay?"

She pulls away from him, wiping all traces of her tears away. "I'm fine," she says unconvincingly.

He moves from above her to his side of the bed, resting his back against the headboard. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head in a firm no. He tilts his head, worried and willing her to talk. She sees his look and quickly jumps out of bed. She'll break if he keeps staring at her like that. "I have to shower," she says, walking to the bathroom door. She shuts it, and he hears the telltale noise of the lock slipping into place. Exhaling deeply, he closes his eyes for a moment. Last night they'd been fine, happy even. They were great and full of affection. He doesn't know what has changed since then and Amelia is not yet willing to share.

Once he opens his eyes, he stands up, ready to begin his morning routine. It's going to be a long day.

* * *

"Can I get you anything?" Owen asks. "Coffee, tea, a kiss?" he teases, trying to lighten the mood. He leans in for a quick brush against her cheek, but she swiftly moves out of his reach. She turns away at the look of hurt on his face and quickly grabs a iPad. "Patients to see," is all she says. He frowns. They've been in a good place for a while now. It took months of talking and counseling and several arguments to get over the rush of their marriage, of her leaving, but now they are in a good place. Or, he thinks, they _were_ in a good place.

For the rest of the day, he tries to engage her in conversation-any conversation. She doesn't take the bait. In fact, she barely looks at him. He even saw her, from the corner of his eye, walking in his direction before turning the other way once she saw him.

So he moves on from Plan A. He tries to give her space, only keeping an eye on her from a distance. He sends her every neuro case in the ER, trying to keep her occupied. But she doesn't look any happier. She doesn't even look tired. She just looks broken, missing even. She's a shell of her usual self.

Later that afternoon, Meredith tells him that Amelia asked for a ride home that night, and he almost breaks. _What is happening?_ He nods, but can't bear to say another word. She's running and he doesn't like it.

He finishes his shift at six-thirty, and he's out right on the dot because he is done with her hiding. He drives home, careful to watch the road and trying to control his breathing. His chest is not contracted with anger, but with anxiety. He needs them to be okay. He needs her.

Opening the door to their home, he's happy to see her sitting on their couch, a small lamp lit so she's not surrounded in total darkness. He was worried she would have stayed at Meredith's.

However, at second glance, he's even more concerned. She doesn't turn to acknowledge him, doesn't look at the door at all, doesn't blink or move. She's staring into space, lost in her thoughts. She is not reading or watching tv, just staring. That empty, heartbroken stare that pains his heart. "Mia?" he says gently, dropping his things by the door and rushing to her side. "Mia," he says again. He brings his hand to cup her cheek, but she moves away. He breathes in and out, trying to control his urge to cover the fear with anger.

He tamps down the nerves creeping up his throat and continues to look into his wife's eyes. He doesn't think she's really seeing him, but he wants her to know he cares from the minute she comes back to him. "Amelia, can you please talk to me?" He lowers his voice even more. "It's going to be okay. Whatever it is, it's going to be okay."

For the first time all day, she faces him, her eyes cold and detached. She scoffs. "No, it's not," she says. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about." Her voice is low, controlled. "Back the hell off."

He's surprised by the malice in her voice; however, he tries to stay calm. She's like him, he rationalizes. She uses anger as a defense mechanism. He takes another deep breath. "What don't I understand?"

"Owen," she raises her voice, "stop talking."

"No," he holds his ground. "No, I'm not going to let you hide from me. You're my wife and we made a promise-no more running."

Her eyes appear to harden further, her icy blues filled with anger. "You think I'm running? I'm not running!"

"Really? Because this looks like-"

"-Shut up! Just," she tries to push herself off the couch, "shut up!" He gently pushes her back down as she continues her tirade. "Did you somehow complete your God status while I was at work?" He frowns, unsure of the meaning of her words. "You can't bring back someone from the dead. So no, you can't fix it. It won't be okay. Stop telling me it will be okay!" He nods, grasping her hands and refusing to let her pull them away. She sniffles. She does not want to cry. "Let me go."

"Tell me more," he bargains. She shakes her head in defiance. "Please? I'd like to hear it."

"I can't," she whimpers, her bottom lip trembling.

He tilts his head as her entire body sags, sinking into the couch as the fight bleeds out of her. He moves his right hand to her cheek, realizing she's not trying to run anymore. She leans into his palm as he gently wipes a few tears away with his thumb. "My son," she whispers, so quiet. He looks into her eyes, letting her know it's safe to continue: he's here for her. "It's his birthday." She sniffles, her chest heaving as she tries to hold back her sobs. "Or would have been his birthday, I guess."

His heart breaks at her agony. He moves his other hand to her cheek and brings her closer, kissing her forehead in a tender show of support. And that's when she loses it: she's bawling, big ugly tears, and her body is shaking so strongly that he has to pull her into him, gripping her tightly, for them to reduce even slightly. "I know you miss him," he whispers. "You did everything you could. You loved him." He holds her even tighter. "You're a wonderful mom. I'm sure he's looking down on you know. You love him. You will always love him." He keeps whispering soft comments in her ears, running his hands through her dark locks, hoping he can help her work through the pain.

She sniffles and the tears in her eyes run dry, her body refusing to cry any longer. She's still heaving but, within another few minutes, her breathing normalizes as well. She pulls back from his embrace, but just slightly so, leaning her forehead against his. Staring into his eyes, she feels at home. She almost feels at peace. It's a soothing experience.

"Thank you," she breathes. His eyes tell her that she doesn't need to say thank you-he'd do anything for her. He loves her. "It hurts," she whimpers.

"I know. I can only imagine that kind of pain. But I know it hurts." He smoothes his thumbs over her cheeks. "But you're not alone. You don't have to do this alone anymore."

"I didn't want to tell you." She sniffles. "I didn't want to bring up the past. I mean," she says nervously, "I feel like I'm cheating on you or something." She shakes her head, pulling back from his grip. "Can you cheat on someone with a ghost? I don't know, Addie said it. Having feelings or something."

He furrows his brows before shaking his head and putting a stop to her word vomit. "You did not cheat on me. And thinking about them isn't cheating-it's normal. Your past makes you who you are. It got us here, together. I would be more worried if you weren't upset today. It's okay to miss them." He presses a tiny kiss to her lips. "It is okay."

A few more tears begin their trek down her cheeks, but she has enough strength to give her husband a small smile. "You promise?"

He tugs on her hands, pulling her into a hug. "I promise."

 _ **Thanks for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!**_


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